


They Don't Love You Like I Love You

by ajarofgoodthings



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, i found it in a search through my google docs but vOILA, this is super old i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4158597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weight of a kingdom sits on Arthur's shoulders, and Morgana offers a moment of silent support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Don't Love You Like I Love You

He’s found himself doing this more often in past weeks; retiring early to his chambers to sit alone. Silent.

 

As his father gets sicker and more obviously frail, the court’s whispers grow louder, the gossip concerning their King’s now more foreseeable death and Arthur’s impending reign floating through the halls like air. But instead of allowing him to breathe, it chokes him, the thought of both suffocates him, and so he hides in his rooms and sits in front of the window and watches the sun go down, praying his father will be alive to see it rise in the morning.

 

He’s made a dent in the books Morgana’s given him over the years in this time, and so at least some sort of accomplishment has come out of the terror he won’t admit to. Plus, he likes the way she smiles at him when he starts a conversation about one of them, and he likes the slight, approving nod his father gives him when he catches them talking now; quiet, calm.

 

They’ve done that for him, settled. They don’t fight the way they used to, at least not in front of him. They never talked about it, but they both seemed to understand the other’s want to keep Uther as happy as possible in his final days. Despite the wrongs done unto both of them by the man and the fights and the shouting and screaming and silence, they both love him.

 

It’s a fact Morgana’s proven in how gentle she’s been with the man, nowhere near as argumentative or biting as she once might have been. She doesn’t want him to die resenting her, and she doesn’t want her last moment with him to be a fight, so she bites her tongue and smiles.

 

Not that Uther’s been in much of a position to bring forth any sort of anger, anyway. The majority of decisions regarding the realm have begun to be deferred to Arthur, a quickening of the power transition that’s been taking place since he was sixteen, and Arthur thinks it likely helps Morgana in her attempts to stay silent when she knows that he’s a lot more likely to listen to her than Uther is.

 

She’s got a power over him.

 

It’s why he’s not surprised when he hears his door creak open without the usual warning knock or announcement; It’s not as though she’s all that likely to catch him in a particularly compromising position; or not a new one, at the least.

 

Neither give a greeting but he sits up slightly in his chair, setting his book over the arm of his chair, open to the page he’s on. He expects her to come round to her usual place, the chair sitting next to the window, facing him, but instead she comes to stand beside him and sets her hand on his shoulder.

 

“I thought you’d be asleep,” she tells him softly, and the light, lilting sort of sound that comes with her accent is just as endearing as it’s always been. “You looked like you were about to fall  in your food at dinner,”

 

“You come in my room when I’m sleeping?” she rolls her eyes at the teasing in his tone, letting out a little sigh and then looking back to him again, raising an expectant eyebrow. Obviously, he’s not going to be able to avoid an explanation. “I’m not sleeping well, or, I sleep all night, but feel no more rested in the morning than I did the previous night. Strange dreams,” and, appropriately, he yawns and brings the back of his hand up to cover his mouth. “Not as strange as yours, obviously,” he adds once he can, and he hears her quiet snort of laughter. The sound is a little resentful.

 

“It’s stress, and nerves, and worry,” she tells him quietly, and she slides her hand from his shoulder to his neck, fingers splayed over his skin and using her thumb to press against the base of his chin and tilt his head up. He looks up at her, but she doesn’t meet his eyes, too busy searching his face, flicking her gaze over the new lines it and the heavy dark circles he knows are in it. “You’ll know what to do, Arthur. You’re a good man; your people will be proud to call you their King,” she assures him, and neither of them give voice to the rest of her words, hanging in the air. A better man than your father; you’ll be respected and loved, not feared and hated. The way the people of Camelot feel about Uther Pendragon is not something Arthur’s ever wanted to come to terms with. He sighs as she pulls her hand from his chin and drops his head, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer to him so his temple rests against her side. She runs her hand between his shoulder blades before it comes to rest on his far shoulder, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, and she brings her free hand up to run it through his hair.

 

It’s intimate, and comforting, and safe, and Arthur can feel his eyes prickling with the tears he’s been refusing for weeks. And then Morgana’s pulling him up from the chair (his book is knocked from its spot in the process and falls to the floor with a dull thud; neither move to pick it up) and he’s letting her lead him to the bed. He stands next to it, silent and staring and strong as she undresses him. With each clasp that comes undone and each layer of fabric removed, he feels lighter, feels like he can breathe again, like he’s no longer trapped under the weight of his responsibilities and his grief.

 

And then, all at once, he breaks.

 

He hides his face in Morgana’s shoulder as he cries, the sobs muffled against her and his tears soaking into the fabric of her dress, and she holds tight to him, her arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders. He can feel her shaking with her own silent sobs, and his arms move around her waist to hold her closer against him, hold tighter to the only person he knows can even begin to understand how absolutely terrified he is.

 

She stops crying first, but she doesn’t shush him or try to calm him down; she just lets him sob, lets him tire himself out, and finally he pulls away and sits down on the edge of the bed, his body slumped in on itself and his head hanging. He feels Morgana press her lips to the top of his head, feels her curl her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck, and then she moves away and the mattress shifts as she climbs up on the bed next to him.

 

He should protest, because he knows he’s likely to keep her up with thrashing and sleep talk and she doesn’t sleep well anyways, but then she’s sitting behind him and pulling him back to lie down, coaxing him to move farther up onto the bed. And then his head is in her lap, and it’s not quite right for them to be sitting like this, him only in his pants and his head resting among the folds of her dress, riding up enough that he can feel her bare leg against his shoulder blade and back, but he decides he doesn’t really care that much when she’s running her fingers through his hair again, mumbling softly to him, almost lyrically.

 

“Sleep, my champion,” she tells him softly, the quiet term of endearment tugging at the corner of his lips a little, and he opens his eyes to look up at her. She hasn’t got any paint on her face; that’s what he calls it, at least, the mixture of beeswax and crushed petals she uses on her lips and the fine powder she usually wears on her eyelids, around her eyes, and she gives him a small smile and she’s beautiful. She’s always beautiful, always devastating, but the pink lips and the pale skin and the natural flush of her cheeks makes her stunning, not striking.

 

“I love you,” he tells her, and he’s sure the three words mean more to them than they do to anyone else. Neither of them say it often, because confessing the weight of all their different sorts of love is not something to be taken lightly. Siblings, friends, bitter enemies, almost lovers, companions, partners, playmates, allies. They’re complicated, everything about them is complicated, and three words are both too much and not enough.

 

She smiles again, anyway, and seems to hesitate a moment, something like fear clouding her eyes. Then she leans and presses her lips against his.

 

It’s not the first time they’ve kissed, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like the first time.

 

She’s careful, and slow, barely brushing her lips to his and it’s almost over before he can register it, but then he leans up and it forces her to linger a moment, just long enough to give her the courage to press her lips harder to his, move her hand from his hair to the side of his face, the edges of her fingers pressed to the bottom of his jaw. And then he’s pushing up on his elbows, and if he were paying any real attention to anything but her he’d probably be rather proud of the move he has to make to shift and sit up, turning to face her right side up and only breaking the kiss long enough for them to catch their breaths. This time, he kisses her, his hands on her torso and both of hers on his neck.

 

And then they break apart. They always break apart.

 

Her eyes are closed and she’s breathing hard and she’s resting his forehead on hers and she flicks her tongue out over her lips, and he watches her, and she smiles. It’s just a little thing, just a small tug of the lips that’s made of fond exasperation and he expects her words.

 

“We can’t, Arthur,”

 

“I love you anyways,” he tells her, because he does, because it’s not just that he thinks she’s beautiful or the way the muscles in her neck move and he wants to make her arch so he can see how those tendons pull tight or how her dress always seems to fall just low enough or the way her hips move when she walks.

 

It’s just that he loves her.

 

He loves that she’s never put up with his bullshit and she always tells him, outright, when he’s being arrogant or stupid or an all around annoying, cocky prick. He loves that she’s never been afraid of offending him because he’s the Prince and that she slapped him because he deserved it. He loves that she insists on being included in council meetings and gives her opinion (which is usually right) and doesn’t let the Lords or even his father talk down to her or give her less respect than is due to her. He loves that when she shouts and argues and gets angry she starts to physically emphasise her words and the way her every movement emulates her every emotion. He loves her passion. He loves when she’s sweet and soft and he loves when she’s sharp and snarky and he loves the way she’s always insisted on training with him; the way she handles a sword is just about as attractive as when she gets too hot and takes off the extra chainmail and fabric and it leaves her showing far more skin than a Lady of her standing should.

 

He loves her and it’s complicated because they’re siblings who fight like no other and they’re best friends who tell each other everything and they’re lovers who do no more than kiss and he knows what she looks like when she’s trying not to cry and she knows what he looks like when he’s trying not to lose his temper.

 

And none of it matters because his father wants to marry him to some Princess that doesn’t like to swordfight or care for politics and doesn’t care about her servants or love the first breath of cold air when she steps outside in the winter, and he wants to marry Morgana off to some old Lord who doesn’t know any of those things about her and won’t care.

 

“I know,” she tells him, because she does, and he’s not hurt that she doesn’t say it too because he knows it’s scarier for her than it is for him.

 

 

They do fall asleep, rather soon after, and they’re not cuddled close or in all that particularly compromising a position; a safe distance away from each other, Arthur lying on his back like he usually does and Morgana curled up on her side, but when Merlin comes in in the morning he stops and stares a moment, unsure what to do.

 

He has to wake them, though, because only moments after he decides he’ll leave and come back again later (and tell Gwen where her mistress is so she doesn’t panic when she goes to check on Morgana in her own room) a guard knocks on the door and the messenger he’s got with him gives the news they’ve all been waiting for (some more optimistically than others).

Uther is dead. Arthur is King.

Suddenly, some things matter a great deal more than they did when the sun went down.


End file.
